


Lestrade Lays Down the Law

by HeatherSnow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherSnow/pseuds/HeatherSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if from the very beginning Lestrade had laid down some rules of proper behavior for both Sherlock and his team?  From Lestrade's point of view.  Mostly original material (i.e. very little repetition of dialogue and action from the series).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This begins pre-series, but has now moved through Series 1 and on into Series 2. Additional chapters will be written as inspiration strikes. So subscribe if you'd be interested in reading further chapters.

 

They say hindsight is 20/20. It really had seemed like a good idea at the time. Sort of. Well, at least the good had seemed to outweigh the bad. But now, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was thinking that he'd made a serious mistake in agreeing to allow Sherlock to progress from case files to actually being allowed on crime scenes. Sherlock had made the argument a hundred times before Lestrade had decided that maybe now was the time to give it a try.

"Just think, Lestrade. How much more information would I have if I could actually see the crime scenes, see the bodies before they're moved, see the surrounding evidence that is disregarded—"

"All right. All right." A moment's pause had followed. "You're right. And you've been clean for a year. I will call you in on difficult cases and allow you access to crime scenes. But, you need to remember that you're on my turf and follow my rules. Don't contaminate the scene, don't do anything that will make evidence inadmissible, don't run off on your own. And Sherlock. No deducing my team members."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at that. "I mean it, Sherlock. I know you can't help but notice things and to figure out what they mean, but you can keep your deductions about my team to yourself. Deal?" And Lestrade had held his hand out.

With glittering eyes, Sherlock had reached out and said, "Deal." 

 

* * *

 

But it ended up being like a train wreck that you can see coming but can't do anything to prevent. Lestrade had prepared his team for Sherlock, referring to him as the consultant that had solved all of those cold cases over the last couple years, as well as helping with some recent ones. He'd warned them that Sherlock was a bit short on people skills, but very good at what he did. Then, of course, he had laid down the rules with Sherlock. But, Lestrade had forgotten to mention a Very Important rule: No insults.

Sherlock had arrived in a swirl of black coat and been off to the races with his deductions, while everyone stood around watching him wide-eyed. After only a few minutes, the perpetrator had been practically signed, sealed, and delivered.

"W-what makes you think he's right?" Donovan half-stuttered, unbelievingly. Unfortunately, Sherlock was an arrogant git that knew how to push everyone's buttons, and so he proceeded to use one of his idiot insults, applied rather broadly to the whole team by implication.

Equally unfortunately, Donovan was like an insecure kindergartener that resorts to name-calling rather than ignoring the instigator, and so she proceeded to call him a freak and began a defense of herself and her colleagues.

Lestrade interrupted, "Donovan! Go take over for Cagney out back. Sherlock! You're with me," as he firmly grabbed Sherlock by the arm and took a few long strides out onto the porch and down the front walk, all the while wondering how he was going to fix this problem.

Lestrade plunged in after a deep breath, "Look, Sherlock. I'm glad to have your insight, and it's extremely helpful. However, if you cannot behave professionally, you will not be allowed to come to crime scenes."

"What are you complaining about, Lestrade? I solved your case, didn't I?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Coming to crime scenes is a privilege, and it's not going to happen if you're going to abuse my team and call them names. You can go back to reading the files only if you can't behave yourself," he finished firmly.

"You'd still be clueless if I hadn't come!" Sherlock declared indignantly.

"I would hate to lose your input, and I understand that you can deduce more with access to the scenes. But look, Sherlock! The majority of the cases that I deal with never involve you, and I'm dependent solely on the members of my team. I need their respect and full cooperation," Lestrade's voice began to raise, "and I'm not going to have that if I let you come in and upstage them and insult them to boot!"

"All I did was correct their mistakes and show them where they'd gone wrong. They should be glad for the opportunity to improve themselves!"

"No, Sherlock, you did more than correct someone's mistake. You insulted everybody and placed them below you. If you're going to keep coming to scenes, you cannot insult my team members! If something they say is inaccurate, you may matter-of-factly say something like, 'Actually, this is what happened. See x, y, and z.' If they miss evidence, you can say, 'Actually, this thing is important because of x.' Can you handle that?"

"How can I know every little petty thing that they might take offense at?" he asked scornfully.

"Personally, I think you're intelligent enough that you should be able to avoid the majority of insults. But, let me give you a hint. Look up 'idiot' in a thesaurus, and then look up all the words that it says mean the same thing, and don't use any of those words you see in reference to myself or any of my team, our actions, words or thoughts. That is a condition of coming to crime scenes, Sherlock." A pause. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," was the grudging answer.

"Good, and you'll need to apologize to Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade said briskly.

"But, she—"

"I will also be talking to Sergeant Donovan about what is professional conduct expected of  **anyone** working my crime scenes. But, you worry about keeping up your bargain with me so that you can have access, and let me worry about my team."

Sherlock just glared at Lestrade and fumed silently.

With a sigh, "Look, Sherlock, I know you're not used to apologizing. You don't even have to say the words, 'I'm sorry.' You can just say something like, 'I shouldn't have insulted you or your team members. I won't do it again.' And you should be able to agree that you shouldn't have, because it's jeopardizing your crime scene access! So, I'll let you know next time there's a crime scene we could use your help at, but don't show up unless you're ready to apologize appropriately and then behave. Otherwise, you can head straight home and be on probation for a month. Now, off with you."

"Lestrade—"

"No, I'm done here. Thank you for your help. I have a crime scene to finish processing. You know what you have to do before you'll be admitted to another one," he said over his shoulder as he walked off. 

 

* * *

 

"Donovan, come in and shut the door. Have a seat." Lestrade waved a hand at a chair.

"Sir—"

"Look, Donovan, I know that Sherlock can be aggravating. It's my mistake for not preparing both you and him better ahead of time. But, no matter how provoking he, or a criminal, or a member of the public, or a superior is, you  **cannot**  react like that. Calling him a freak because he's different from you was totally unprofessional."

"But, he was—"

"I've talked with him. I will not allow you to insult him, and I will not allow him to insult you. But, Sherlock has appalling social skills. I really should have expected it of him, but I expected better of you. What in the world made you respond like that?"

"Sir, he- he acted like he was better than all of us, better than you. Superior and genius, looking down on us idiots who do this for a living, like he can do our jobs better than us. And—"

Suddenly, Lestrade realized how insecure Sally actually still was in her relatively new role. "Look, Sally," he sighed, "Sherlock is very, very good as what he does. I have never seen anyone better able to take the pieces of a puzzle and figure out what happened. You aren't anywhere near as good as him at that, and neither am I. But, that's only one small part of your job. You are outstanding at handling victims and distraught witnesses, interviewing them, calming them down, establishing rapport. You are great at dealing with criminals in a cool matter-of-fact way, no matter what they say. You're good at motivating other team members to work toward getting the job done. You're hard-working and stick to a task like a terrier until it's done. You're an outstanding detective sergeant, and I would take you in that role over Sherlock Holmes any day of the week. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Th-thank you, sir!" Sally said as she sat up straighter and lifted her chin. Though Lestrade had offered the occasional praise, he had never made it so completely clear how much he valued her.

"Sherlock would be a lousy police detective, but he is a very good consulting detective. No family should be left not knowing what happened to their loved one." He noticed Donovan had a brief look of shame on her face for having forgotten that in her confrontation with Sherlock. "So, I would like to bring him in on the tough cases, and I'll expect you both to behave appropriately. If you want to make detective inspector some day, you need to learn how to respond professionally even to those who don't treat you the same way. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Sherlock knows that the next time he comes to a crime scene, he Is expected to apologize to you. And I expect you to apologize to him. And I would suggest as the professional, you make the move to apologize first."

"Understood."

"Good. That's all, Donovan." But as Donovan started to open the door, Lestrade looked up, "Oh, Donovan, I'd suggest a better way to address him would be Mr. Holmes." 

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had stopped in routinely on Sherlock a few days later, just to get a feel for whether Sherlock was going to play ball. It was two weeks before Lestrade had a case that he felt was worthy of Sherlock's attention. Lestrade made sure that he and Donovan were off to the side apart from everyone else when Sherlock arrived.

Sherlock stepped quickly into the room, before zeroing in on Lestrade and Donavan and quickly striding over. Both he and Donovan began to speak at the same time, halted, and then Donovan said, "Go ahead, Mr. Holmes."

"Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock began, and then proceeded to repeat Lestrade's sample apology word-for-word, though he did make them sound like his own words. "I shouldn't have insulted you or your team members. I won't do it again. Please, call me Sherlock."

Donovan said somewhat stiffly, "Thank you, Sherlock," and then proceeded more naturally. "I also shouldn't have said what I did. It was unprofessional, and it won't happen again. I appreciate anything you can do to help us get answers." She held out her hand to Sherlock, and after a moment, he shook on their truce.

Lestrade saw several of his team members had been observing from the other side of the room, which had been his plan all along, since they had been offended as well. Word would spread quickly. "Good. Sherlock, let me show you what we've got."

After Sherlock was done at the scene—this time he needed to do some research before providing any final answers—Lestrade walked him out. "So, you stuck with exactly what I suggested," as he turned to Sherlock.

"I don't do apologies, Lestrade. It was either, 'I'm sorry," or what you said. And your proposed script was imminently better," with a wry look.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Welcome to the team."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade really didn’t like press conferences of any kind, but some were more tolerable than others.  But a press conference for the purpose of announcing a suicide linked to two previous ones… not so much.  He was getting rather frustrated with how quickly it had disintegrated to the press obsession with serial killers, when his phone trilled a text alert, and he glanced down to see “Wrong!”

The corner of Lestrade’s mouth quirked up, before he fought it back and continued on.  At least he knew what Sherlock was up to at the moment.  “….it’s an unusual situation. We’ve got our best people investigating—“

Another text arrived on Lestrade’s phone declaring his error.  Clearing his throat, Lestrade ignored the text and finished out the press conference.  As he stood up to leave another text arrived.  “You know where to find me.  SH”

“What was that all about, sir?”  Donovan inquired as they walked out of the room.

“Oh, Himself was just offering his services,” Lestrade answered casually.

With raised eyebrows, Sally replied, “I’ll bet he was.”  
  


* * *

  
Lestrade strolled into Sherlock’s new flat.  “Well, Sunshine, I’m flattered to know that you listen to my press conferences.”

“I was interested in the case, Lestrade.  I’m not part of your fan club.”

A pause.  “Excuse me.  Fan club?”

 “The informal group of women—with an average age far past menopause—who cut your picture out of the newspaper to put up on their fridges.”

A few seconds of silence.  Well, that thought was mildly disturbing.  Lestrade gave his head a quick shake, “Well moving along.  Any progress on the case yet?”

“I’m pursuing some possibilities.  I plan to take my riding crop into Bart’s tomorrow during Molly’s shift to test out a few theories, but there isn’t much I can do until then.  The suicides?”

“I brought copies of the paperwork over for you.  Crime scenes have already been processed, but if there’s another, I’ll be sure to send for you right away.  That’s assuming, of course, that you can pull yourself away from your new digs, which I must say are a far sight better than Montague Street.”

“Yes, this flat is more desirable for several reasons.  The landlady owes me a favor.  I helped her get her husband executed.”  A pause as Sherlock appreciated the look on Lestrade’s face, “Oh, and I’m on the lookout for a flatmate, so if you know of someone you think would be suitable—What?”

Hastily, “Oh nothing.  It’s just—you don’t seem to be the type to want a flatmate.  Chances are slim that he’ll meet your standards of intelligence and have the necessary… tolerance.”

“Well, thanks to my brother, I don’t have much choice about having a flatmate.  But, I’m certainly not taking one of the twenty-four dossiers he sent my way.”

“Twenty-four!” Lestrade gaped.  “Well I guess that means you’re hoping to find someone soon and stick it to Mycroft.”  A sound of agreement came from Sherlock’s direction.  “Well, I hope you can find a good fit.  Maybe even make a friend.”

“Friend?  Why would I want a friend?  I have no interest in having someone to go down to the pub with and watch… football matches!” the last said with a sneer.

Surprised, Lestrade let out a bark of laughter.  “Friends don’t have to enjoy a pint or football together.  They can do other things together that they enjoy.  Maybe you could find someone else to discuss cases with.  You obviously enjoy that.”

Drily, “I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t violate your petty little rules.”

“Ah, I’m guessing that’s the one about not using “idiot” or any of its synonyms.  I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were going to ‘compliment’ me by saying I’m less of an idiot than some people.”

A snort came from the sofa.  “It’s questionable,” Sherlock muttered.

“Do you want to speak a little louder, Sunshine?” Lestrade sing-songed.

“No!  You’ve said what you came to say.  You know where the door is.” Sherlock turned his full attention back to his microscope.

“Sure.  I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”  Lestrade let himself out and then stopped on the landing and shook his head.  He did his best to keep an eye on Sherlock, but could only do so much with his busy job and a wife with a right to demand most of his free hours.  And while Mycroft certainly kept a close eye on Sherlock, the relationship was anything but friendly.  Sherlock could use a friend living with him, someone who could deal with body parts in the fridge, mind palace trips, anti-social tendencies, and sheer genius.  He sure hoped that Sherlock could find a mate like that.  
  


* * *

  
Lestrade was the only who on his team who really liked Sherlock.  Oh, they treated Sherlock politely.  But, even though he was trying not to insult anyone, Sherlock was still abrupt.  It was sometimes quite obvious when he had to explain his deductive leaps that he was desperately reining himself in, even if he did avoid the insults.  There was no great love lost on either side, but they managed a civil working relationship.  Some of Lestrade’s team could also appreciate the contributions that Sherlock made, even if they did wish they could have been made by someone a bit friendlier and more socially adept.

Lestrade knew that Donovan had taken what he had said seriously.  She made a deliberate effort to watch Sherlock and learn from his example, and her observation skills had improved as a result.  She was impeccably polite to Sherlock.  But, Lestrade knew that she still didn’t really like him, had no interest in being his friend or spending time with him outside of the job. 

Sherlock had obeyed Lestrade’s rules and kept any deductions about the team to himself.  But, you couldn’t watch Sherlock gather all of that information, make all of those deductions, in a few minutes with a dead corpse, without realizing that he must know a good bit more about you.  And Lestrade thought that was the real thing that made his team uncomfortable around Sherlock, his abilities and likely knowledge of them, not the fact that he hadn’t heard of the words “please,” “thank you,” and “you’re welcome.”

After Sherlock had been coming to crime scenes for a while, Donovan and Anderson had started showing an interest in each other.  Oh, they probably thought they were being discreet, and Lestrade didn’t think anyone else on the team had noticed.  But he had.  He didn’t know if they’d actually done anything yet, but he could certainly see in their glances and occasional hand brushes that they were thinking about it.  It disappointed him, because he thought Sally was better than that, to go after a married man, but as long as it didn’t affect their work or professional relationship, it was none of his business.

Lestrade would never forget the first scene that Sherlock came to after their mating dance had begun.  As soon as Sherlock saw Donovan, his eyes ran over her rapidly and then jumped over to Anderson and repeated the procedure.  He looked back at Donovan, took a deep breath, opened his mouth… and then stopped.  He looked back and forth between them a couple more times, obviously struggling to contain himself, before he abruptly walked past them and up to Lestrade.  It was obvious by Donovan’s mortified expression that she knew Sherlock had deduced the truth of the matter.  That was the end of any relationship with Anderson, and Sherlock never said a word.  But, it isn’t comfortable being around someone who can see all your secrets, though Lestrade thought that Donovan did have a grudging respect for Sherlock’s silence.

And so no matter how civil he tried to be, Sherlock was too different to find a friend among any members of Lestrade’s team.  And as awkward as Sherlock was and as irritating as he could still be (because he did let loose on Lestrade in private at times), Lestrade thought that he was a pretty amazing young man and a very lonely one.

And a better flatmate than Lestrade could have hoped for would enter the picture very soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade had just gotten off the phone with Mycroft and was suiting up at the scene of the fourth suicide when Sherlock showed up.  He had in tow the man from the flat, apparently a former army doctor by the name of John Watson.  Still, it wouldn’t do to let Sherlock get away without making the proper introductions, even if Mycroft had already ensured he would let Dr. Watson on the scene.

“Who’s this?”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock replied shortly.

“Well, that’s all well and good, but it doesn’t work like that, Sherlock.  I’m responsible for who sets foot on this crime scene.  Now, who is he?”

Impatiently, “Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Dr. John Watson, recently returned from service in Afghanistan.  He’s here to assist me.  Now, may we proceed to the matter at hand?”

* * *

  
As Sherlock walked from the ambulance over to Dr. Watson, Lestrade shook his head.  The last two days had certainly been interesting.  Sherlock had been clearer in explaining his deductions, making it easier for Lestrade to follow them.  Sherlock had obviously been quite pleased to have Dr. Watson tagging along with him, even if he had forgotten him at the crime scene in his exclamations over the color pink.

It was a good job that Lestrade had seen the warning signs and yelled to Campbell to be ready to take off after him.  Sherlock hadn’t had to be grounded more than once for disrupting evidence, but he could be forgetful when excited, so Lestrade preferred to head things off.  Campbell had run track and could keep up with Sherlock as long as he didn’t take to the rooftops.  Still, it was looking like Dr. Watson would be a good influence on Sherlock, something Mycroft would be happy to hear, if he were willing to believe it at this point.

Lestrade continued to work until he saw that Sherlock was out of sight, and then he crossed over to where Mycroft Holmes was standing.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade replied with a smile.  “I saw you had a chance to inspect Sherlock and make sure he’s okay.”

“Yes, and thank you for your text.  Do you think you’re going to make much progress into the matter of who the shooter was?”

Lestrade looked at Mycroft pointedly for a moment.  “I’m not a genius, but I’m not stupid either.  Sherlock was in the middle of making deductions about the shooter and then told me to ignore him, that he was in shock.”  A few seconds silence.  “Sherlock Holmes asking someone to ignore his deductions.  And based on our earlier discussion and the fact that the shooter acted in a way that may well have saved Sherlock’s life, I assume that anything I pursued wouldn’t go anywhere.”

“Indeed.  You’re far from ‘stupid,’ Greg….”  As if he were changing the subject, “I am hoping that my brother’s new roommate will be a good influence on him.  I certainly hope so given that it seems very obvious at this point by Sherlock’s behavior that Dr. Watson will have an influence of _some_ sort.  You’ll keep me updated, I assume.” 

“Well, at the very least, he’ll obviously have someone else watching his back.  I’ll keep you posted.  I need to get back to the scene.  Good night, Mycroft.”

* * *

  
After a few weeks, it did seem as if John Watson had had a small influence on Sherlock.  He made Sherlock take better care of himself, and Sherlock continued to give more coherent explanations.  The latter seemed motivated by the desire for John to praise him, but it made cases with Sherlock less stressful for Lestrade so he was pleased.

“Why are people more willing to help John than me?” Sherlock asked Lestrade after they’d finished discussing the case he’d come over about.

A few seconds’ pause. Lestrade noted that this topic of conversation had not come up until a time that John was absent. “Are some of my team not cooperating with you?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissing Lestrade’s question, “No, they work with me.  But, they go out of their way to do things when John asks, and even when he doesn’t.  When we’re working late at the Yard and John shows signs of being tired, someone brings us coffee.  They never brought coffee before.  When John asked one of your people about the status of the forensic analysis last Tuesday, instead of saying it wasn’t done, the man called to the lab to find out when it would be.  And clients and interviewees are more cooperative too.  Last week—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.  I understand.  No more examples necessary.  Sherlock, have you ever heard the expression you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

Sherlock looked puzzled.  “That isn’t accurate, Lestrade.  Flies are attracted to the—“

“Okay!  Ix-nay on the figurative language.  I meant that people are more cooperative when you act nicely to them.”

Brow furrowed, “But I am… _nice_ to them.  You require me to be.”

“Nooooo.  You refrain from insulting them and commenting on their personal private affairs.  That’s not being nice; that’s avoiding being a jerk.”  He sighed at Sherlock’s clueless expression.  “Look, you’re a clever clogs prone to whinging who acts like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.  John wears jumpers and smiles and says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and asks people how they’re doing and knows their names, and so they believe he cares about them.  They feel good when they do something to help him.”

Disbelievingly, “You’re saying that if I say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘how are you?’ and remember names that people will be more helpful?”

“It’s not a guarantee.  And you probably wouldn’t seem as genuine as John so it wouldn’t have as great an effect.  But, yes, Sherlock, I think you would probably see better results.”

“Do you think those would have a sufficient effect alone?  You have previously informed me that I should never fake a smile—“

“I believe my exact words were that I’ve seen less disturbing sights in horror films—“

Sherlock spoke louder to drown Lestrade out.  “And I most certainly am not wearing jumpers!”

“And what exactly is wrong with jumpers?” John asked from the doorway.

* * *

  
“Well, Greg.  I understand that you are now a primary school teacher, or at least a tutor.” Mycroft remarked with a raised eyebrow during a routine luncheon kidnapping.

“Pardon?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes, it seems like you’re teaching Sherlock how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ It’s obvious how clever he is.  It only took him thirty-three years to begin to grapple with the concepts.  I do believe his understanding could use some fine-tuning though.  He seems to believe that they are magic words that by themselves will produce results, regardless of the context he delivers them in.”

Lestrade sighed.  “What did he do?”

Mycroft took a sip of his tea and then dabbed at his lips with the napkin.  “He called me and proceeded to insult me in several ways that I do not care to repeat, but my diet was involved at one point.  He then demanded immediate access to CCTV footage related to the Myerson case he was working on for you.  It was not a convenient time to dedicate someone to the task, and I proceeded to tell him that he’d have to wait.  He then demanded between clenched teeth, ‘Mycroft, please, get me the footage now,’ sounding for all the world like a child half a minute from throwing a tantrum.”

Lestrade couldn’t help a resigned chuckle.

“Quite right, Greg.  ‘Please’ is not a word I’ve heard pass my brother’s lips.  I was torn between encouraging the effort—however lacking— and making him wait in hopes that he would see the universe doesn’t revolve around him and his timetable. It was quite the quandary.  I finally decided that Sherlock was more likely to learn the lesson that ‘please’ is good than he was to learn that he isn’t the center of everything.”

* * *

  
Several days later, Lestrade was thinking over a conversation with Donovan earlier in the day.

“It’s hard to get used to, sir,” Donovan said as she walked down the street with Lestrade.

“To what?” Lestrade responded.

“To Sherlock Holmes saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’  It’s obvious he still expects everyone to comply with him, but it’s amazing how much less annoying it feels when he says those words.  And at least you now know he noticed when you’ve done something for him.  John Watson is a miracle worker.”

And that seemed to be the reaction of most of his team Lestrade mused.  Just a few days ago, Sherlock had even managed a case with Detective Inspector Dimmock after Lestrade recommended Sherlock.  Of course, Lestrade had informed Dimmock of the ground rules and reminded Sherlock in a text.  After all, it wouldn’t do any good for Lestrade’s reputation at the Yard if Sherlock went around insulting other teams.  Dimmock had even said that he might call Sherlock in on cases from time to time.  Lestrade thought that John Watson was an excellent flatmate for Sherlock, probably better than any of Mycroft’s twenty-four selections, though Lestrade would never have dared to say it.

Lestrade’s mobile rang. “Lestrade here.”

“Greg,” and Lestrade immediately got off the sofa to get ready to go, as he hadn’t heard Mycroft sound that upset since the last time Sherlock overdosed years ago, “there’s just been an explosion on Baker Street, and Sherlock isn’t responding to texts.  I’m unable to go at this time.  If you could—“

“Say no more.  I’m on my way.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

It ended up not being nearly as bad as Lestrade and Mycroft had feared.  Sherlock had come out of the Baker Street explosion relatively unscathed, though Lestrade had had to strong-arm him to stay put long enough to get checked out by the paramedics.  And it had been only the beginning of a few very busy days with  a maniac playing a game with Sherlock using other people’s lives.

Lestrade had heard Sherlock refer to his brother Mycroft as his “archenemy,” a title given to him in large part because of Sherlock’s melodramatic nature but also because Mycroft’s behavior fed into it.  Yes, Lestrade had had the dubious pleasure of being kidnapped on occasion before he had established a more friendly relationship with Mycroft.  But it was obvious that Mycroft was hardly Sherlock’s enemy.  However, it was very clear that Moriarty was the real deal, a very dangerous opponent.  And Lestrade was pretty certain that Sherlock wasn’t sharing all that he knew. 

The recurring deadline with each new victim made the stress unbelievable on all of them, including Sherlock.  Lestrade could see that Sherlock was bothered by the old lady’s death, and he was as close to frantic as Lestrade had ever seen him when the young boy was seconds away from joining her.  Lestrade had gotten the distinct impression that John wasn’t able to see past Sherlock’s cold-appearing exterior and was upset by it.  Maybe a casual chat with John would be a good idea. 

But, Sherlock could deal with his own problems for the time being.  Lestrade was exhausted.  Unfortunately, after difficult cases, he tended to toss and turn and disturb his wife.  So, he had stayed up late enough to try to unwind so that he’d be able to fall asleep quickly.  He’d just reached that point when he heard the text alert.  He was tempted to ignore it, but then he sighed and pulled it out to take a look. 

_Look at my website.  –SH_

“Of all the stupid—“ Lestrade broke off abruptly and took a deep breath and counted to 10.   He really wasn’t in the mood to play Sherlock’s games or to read his latest post about 216 different T-shirt fabrics.  But, it wasn’t long before he jumped to his feet and let loose a string of profanity that he was glad his wife wasn’t awake to chew him out for. 

It was already midnight.  Whatever was going to happen would likely already be over by the time they could figure out which pool Sherlock was at and gather a sufficient force.  On his way out the door, he called Mycroft to alert him.  Lestrade could not believe the stupidity involved in Sherlock’s invitation to Moriarty to meet at the pool without notifying anyone in advance.  When would he stop risking his life over stupid things?  If this went wrong, Lestrade was going to wring Sherlock’s neck.  Actually, he might do it even if things did turn out well.   
  


* * *

  
When Lestrade showed up at the pool, he found Mycroft’s men milling about while Sherlock and John stood outside the building.  It didn’t appear that Mycroft had arrived yet.

Lestrade scanned both men as he approached.  They seemed to be in good condition, if a little stressed.  Lestrade felt a wave of relief begin to wash over him, before Sherlock opened his mouth.  “Ah, Lestrade, your response time could have been better.  It was—“

“Sherlock, if you finish that sentence, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” Lestrade snapped.  “Did Moriarty not show?”

Sherlock summarized in his rapid fire fashion, “Moriarty’s already come and gone.  He kidnapped John and put him in Semtex.  He planned to kill both of us.  I was about to blow up the building to stop him when Moriarty got a phone call that was more interesting and left.”  There was a brief pause before he noticed Lestrade’s mood and asked with a raised eyebrow, “Problem?”

“I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now.  Your brother’s pulling up.  I’ll let him read you the riot act.  I’m going home.  To sleep.  Though I can always come by tomorrow if you seriously need me to explain the problem?” Lestrade cocked an eyebrow.

“No,” Sherlock replied warily, but then he added in an insistent tone, “But I texted you.  You would have said that I needed to let someone know, so I texted you.”

Lestrade sighed wearily, “Next time try beforehand, not during.  And try telling me everything that’s going on one of these days.”  As Lestrade walked away, he threw over his shoulder, “Glad you’re not dead.  Both of you.”

He was getting too old for this.  Every time he thought he’d gotten all the ground rules in place with Sherlock, he’d find another way to get in trouble.   
  


* * *

  
As usual, Lestrade found that after a couple days of catching up on sleep whenever he wasn’t working—and didn’t _that_ make the wife happy—his views on life, and Sherlock, were much less gloomy.  He felt a little guilty for how short he’d been with Sherlock.  So he decided to make the time to meet John at the pub and do a good deed, even though he was still rather busy at work.

“I could have throttled him on this case.”  John was ranting to Lestrade after some brief chitchat about more mundane topics.  “He knew how Connie Prince died for hours!  And he left that poor old woman in Semtex fearing for her life!”

“Of course, he did,” Lestrade responded as though it were obvious.  “He was going to move on whenever Sherlock solved it.  Sherlock was trying to stop it from happening to someone else.  And if he solved it too quickly, he might have been given less time the next time.  And then someone might be more than afraid; they might be dead.”

“But he didn’t care about the people, just the puzzle!” John said angrily.

“Look, mate, I’ve seen the look on Sherlock’s face when he doesn’t figure it out fast enough.  When another person dies.  It’s not the look of someone just upset that he didn’t solve a puzzle.  He’s upset by what happened because of it.”

“He _told_ me he didn’t care.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.  “What exactly did he say and what did you say first?”

John looked up a moment, “Uh... I asked if he cared about the lives at stake.  He asked if caring would help save them.  I said no, and he said then he wouldn’t.”

“John, what about the hundreds murdered every day around the world?”

“Excuse me?”

“Or raped or beaten or sold into slavery?  Or the millions of children living in poverty?  Why don’t you seem very torn up about them?” Lestrade asked in a curious tone of voice.

“But, there’s nothing I could do, and I don’t even know them.  And if— I sat around thinking about all the bad going on everywhere, I couldn’t live my life.”

“Uh-huh.  You think it’s bad.  You don’t want those things to happen to anyone, but in general, you’re distant from them.  Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.  Just what you have to do to keep going.  Just like you probably deliberately distance yourself from badly injured people when you have to treat them, because you couldn’t do your best job if you were constantly thinking about what a nice guy the patient is.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.  But I still care!” John insisted, but sounding less heated than he had been a few minutes before.

In what seemed a complete change of subject, Lestrade said, “You know that Sherlock used to use drugs. I’m not going to go into all the details, but you met him at the high point of his adult life, with only one brief relapse in the past several years, a meaningful way to occupy his time, living in a nice flat.  You know the one before wasn’t nearly as nice, bad part of town, but at least he had a place to stay.”  A weighty pause.  “It was a step up from what he had before.”

“He was homeless?” John asked sounding mildly horrified.

Lestrade didn’t directly answer the question, but was glad to see that John had calmed down.  “He’s seen a lot of things.  A lot of the misery that this world has to offer.  And he hasn’t just seen it after the deed is done.” Lestrade took a swallow from his mug before placing it firmly back down on the table and looking John straight in the eye.  “He cares.  He doesn’t get deeply emotional about it, and he doesn’t put it on display for the world, but he does care.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

Lestrade let out a harsh laugh.  “I’ve worked with Sherlock for five years.  Believe me, I’ve had plenty of time to try to figure him out.”

“And how’s that going?” John inquired with an air of amusement.

“I think I might be at 10%.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So, any luck with the investigation into Moriarty?” John asked near the end of the evening.

“Totally dead,” Lestrade answered.  “The victims really didn’t have any useful information.  We just don’t have any avenues to pursue, at least not until new information shows up or Sherlock makes a dazzling deduction.”

“So, Molly didn’t have any useful information?” John asked.

Lestrade’s sharp gaze met John’s.  “Molly Hooper?  Why would she know anything?”

“Well, when we were at the morgue, he showed up, she introduced him just as Jim, said he worked in the IT department, and that they were an item.  Did Sherlock not mention this to you?”

Lestrade was disappointed.  Sherlock was withholding information again.  “No, he didn’t.  In fact, he didn’t even tell me that he had met Moriarty before the pool.  Did he know that Jim was Moriarty at the time?”

“I don’t think so, because after Jim left, Sherlock told Molly she should give up on Jim because he was obviously gay because of the way he dressed—which didn’t go over well with Molly by the way.  Oh, and he kind of obviously slipped Sherlock his number.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.  “So, basically, he put on an act, and Sherlock was completely taken in?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, I have a sneaking suspicion why I didn’t hear this from Sherlock.”  A thoughtful pause before Lestrade said casually, “John, when’s a good time to stop by the flat that you won’t be at home?”

John replied hesitantly, “Um, tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be at the clinic.  Why?”

“When possible, it’s best to read Sherlock the riot act in private.”

 

* * *

Lestrade snapping at Sherlock after the pool incident had probably contributed to Sherlock not being willing to share anything related to his mistake with Moriarty.  Still Lestrade couldn’t let Sherlock get away with this.  He was no longer purely a consultant in this case.  Sherlock was actually a victim and witness, who had been directly asked if he knew of any other contacts that Moriarty had. 

“It just can’t happen again, Sherlock.  If I can’t trust you to give me the facts, then I can’t have you on my cases.  Now this hasn’t been an issue for a really long time.  I think this thing with Moriarty is making you lose your head.  Can you play by the rules, Sherlock?”  Lestrade gaze bored into Sherlock.

“Yes,” he said as he continued to avoid looking at Lestrade directly.

“Well good then.”  Very casually, he continued, “I have an interesting case here if you have a few more minutes?”

Sherlock finally looked at Lestrade and after a moment tentatively said, “Are you sure it’s actually worth my time, Inspector?”

Lestrade replied back with a half-smile, “Well, let’s see, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Moriarty seemed to fade into the background over the next few months.  Things were quickly back to normal with Sherlock, but for Lestrade they were deteriorating on the home front.  No one at the Yard knew about it though.  Actually, Lestrade really hadn’t talked about it with any of his non-Yard friends either.  He wasn’t the type to share his sob stories with other people.  He knew both of the Holmes brothers must know something, but neither one had said anything, for which he was thankful.

One fall day, Lestrade was catching up on paperwork at his desk when he received a phone call from Mycroft Holmes requesting that he go to Belgravia where Sherlock had apparently been drugged by a dominatrix.  That was definitely something that didn’t happen every day.  And so he soon found himself helping John to wrestle Sherlock out of the woman’s home and into a taxi.

“Hey, where’s his coat?” Lestrade asked as the taxi traveled toward Baker Street.

“He gave it to Miss Adler.”

“Sherlock offered a woman his coat?” Lestrade asked disbelievingly.

“She was naked.”  Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.  “I-it was just to intimidate us, and I asked her to put something on.  She wasn’t going to. So, Sherlock gave her his coat, and she was certainly happy to put  _that_ on.”

“You don’t sound very happy.  Sherlock wasn’t…  _interested_ in her, was he?”

Shaking his head, John replied, “I don’t know if he was in that way, but he was certainly bewitched by her in some way.  She was like a spider weaving her web, waiting to devour him.”

Lestrade ruefully said, “Well, I have never managed to work a case where an attractive woman preferred to talk with me in the nude.”

John chuckled appreciatively. “Yeah, but you haven’t ever managed to get yourself drugged by a suspect either, have you?” he asked rhetorically.

“Actually I have, but only when working with Sherlock,” Lestrade said wryly.  John laughed at that.

Sherlock was mumbling in his sleep with his face half-buried in John’s shoulder; any efforts to straighten him up had resulted in him flopping forward onto the floor.  “I’m going to videotape this,” Lestrade decided.  “The next time Sherlock tries to pretend he’s not human like the rest of us, I’ll be able to prove that he drooled like a baby.”

“No!” John exclaimed.  “He isn’t?  Not on my jacket!”

Lestrade laughed, “I’m afraid he is, mate.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Lestrade was happy to get the rest of the details from Mycroft at one of their semi-regular luncheons.  “I sent some men to pick up my brother.  He knew exactly where he was going, to deal with a matter involving Miss Adler and a highly ranked individual.  When I entered, he and John were still waiting to be seen, and Sherlock was wrapped in a sheet.  With nothing underneath it.

Startled, Lestrade spit his water back into his glass.  “Excuse me.  That’s pretty bad behavior even for Sherlock.  At home yes, but away from home…”

Mycroft sighed, “He will behave for you, but I apparently do not know the right tune to pipe.”

“Well, unfortunately, I think Sherlock takes pleasure in getting your goat, you can’t ignore him, and you need him on the cases you call him in on.  Anyway, if you withheld them, he’d just say that he was glad to not have to see you.”

“Quite.”  Mycroft continued with a tight smile, “Dr. Watson, unfortunately, found it all quite amusing, cracking jokes along with Sherlock.  In some ways, he’s a good influence on Sherlock, but in other ways, Sherlock is a bad influence on him.  You underestimate yourself, Greg; Sherlock wouldn’t behave nearly so well for you if he didn’t respect you.”

Lestrade said, “Well, ta for that.  I guessed as much, but it’s always nice to hear it said, and  _he_ certainly won’t.  But I want to know what happened next.”

“Well, after a bit of discussion where Sherlock refused to put on his clothes, he stormed out, I stepped on his sheet, and he nearly lost what little dignity he had remaining to him.”  Lestrade failed to suppress a brief laugh.  “He finally dressed, though he sulked straight through tea.  He then proceeded to Miss Adler’s residence to try to obtain the blackmail evidence, and I believe you know the rest?”

“John said that she was naked, that she was trying to intimidate them.”

“Yes.  I would also say that she was trying to hinder Sherlock’s ability to deduce her, both by presenting fewer details to observe and by simply distracting him.  It appeared to work, although he’ll hardly admit it,” Mycroft observed drily.  “She still has the incriminating photos.  I’m left trusting the word of a dominatrix and the star-struck brother who vouches for her.”  Then with an unpleasant smile, “Unsurprisingly, the other personages involved are not pleased with this resolution.  Neither am I.  I doubt we have seen the last of Miss Adler.”

 

* * *

 

Later in the fall, Irene Adler still hadn’t made a re-appearance.  Greg had just finished discussing another case with Sherlock and was getting ready to leave when Sherlock cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Greg, I have a hypothetical question for you,” Sherlock said hesitantly, “in the interest of increasing my understanding of interpersonal relationships.”

Lestrade’s interest was piqued.  Sherlock didn’t call him “Greg,” and he didn’t sound so tentative.  Lestrade was certain this question was anything but hypothetical.

“You’ve told me before that I shouldn’t reveal my deductions about people unless it’s critical to an investigation.  But what if I had deduced something… unpleasant that they are unaware of.  Such as, hypothetically, that their spouse was cheating on them.  Do you think I should say something then?”

Before Sherlock had even finished his question, Lestrade knew exactly who he was talking about, but appreciated the effort that Sherlock had made to handle it tactfully.  He replied with a sad half-smile.  “You’re a good friend, Sherlock.  Thank you.  But, I already know.”

Sherlock looked a bit embarrassed to be figured out, but also had a distinctly puzzled look on his face.  “Are you sure you—but—you’re still with her!  _Why_ ?” He spit the last out.

Lestrade turned his back and looked out the window as he spoke.  “I don’t want to admit it’s over.  We’ve got a lot of history.  And so I keep on hoping,” he sighed, “or trying to hope; don’t know that there’s much hope left.  Really, I just keep waiting for the moment that she’s going to end it.  But I can’t do it.  I just can’t be the one to end it.”

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke.  “What am I supposed to  _say_ ?”

Lestrade chuckled wearily as he turned.  “'I’m sorry' works.  Not much else you can say.  But your faintly desperate tone gave me a laugh, so ta for that.”

“I’m glad that I can be a source of amusement to you,” Sherlock sniffed, but didn’t quite match his usual air.

 “It’ll work out in the end, sunshine.  I just keep going on.  It’s all I can do.”


	6. Chapter 6

A Christmas party co-hosted by Sherlock was certain to be a unique experience, regardless of how negligible his contributions were.  Lestrade had been pretty sure that Sherlock was allergic to Christmas, accepting Lestrade’s small presents in the past but only with significant snark.  So when Lestrade showed up at 221B, he was pleasantly surprised to hear Sherlock playing Christmas music.  Apparently Mrs. Hudson was disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t worn antlers, but Lestrade would have been gobsmacked by that sight. 

John’s latest girlfriend was present also, though Lestrade wouldn’t be surprised if the relationship didn’t last beyond the evening.  Prolonged exposure to Sherlock in a social setting was not for the faint of heart. 

Lestrade heard the door downstairs and realized that the final guest must have arrived.  When he’d spoken with her briefly earlier in the week, Molly had seemed quite excited at the idea.  The poor girl had such an obvious crush on Sherlock, who was never going to return her affections, but who didn’t mind complimenting her to get what he wanted. 

Molly removed her coat, and, Lestrade was embarrassed to realize afterwards, he gawped.  Well, she was certainly trying to show Sherlock that she was not a girl, but a woman.  She didn’t get any reaction from Sherlock though, who seemed more focused on John’s blog, going on about a counter.  Lestrade offered her a drink in an effort to distract her. 

When he returned with her glass, Molly said, “Thank you.  So are you and your wife going anywhere over the holidays?” 

Lestrade cleared his throat.  “Well, actually, she and I are getting a divorce, so we’re not doing much of anything together anymore,” with a self-deprecating smile. 

As looks of sympathy appeared on Mrs. Hudson’s and John’s faces, Molly stammered, “I’m s-sorry.  I d-didn’t know.  I—“ 

“No, no, of course not,” Lestrade interrupted her.  “It was only a recent decision.  You couldn’t know.”  

There was an awkward pause before Sherlock burst out, “Let’s have presents now!  That appears to be the main reason for celebrating the holiday, along with an inexplicable desire to overdose on sentimental nonsense and gorge oneself on comestibles.”  He continued to chatter on about who should sit where, while he received fond looks from all who knew Sherlock and recognized what he was attempting to do.  Except for John’s girlfriend, who looked like this had sealed her opinion of Sherlock as unforgivably odd.

They had just settled in to exchange presents when Sherlock received a text announced by a sound that was rather embarrassing in mixed company, not that it seemed to bother Sherlock in the slightest.  He crossed over to the mantelpiece, picked up a wrapped present, and then left for his bedroom.  Lestrade and John exchanged glances before John went after Sherlock to check on him. 

After a few minutes, John came back out looking concerned and then stopped as he realized everyone was looking at him.  “Umm…  Something came up.  Sherlock is busy right now.  Let’s just go on, yeah?”

So they opened the presents in front of them, while Sherlock’s pile remained untouched.  After the gift exchange was over, there seemed to be nothing left to do.  The atmosphere was uncomfortable with John’s girlfriend obviously being peeved, John desperately trying to lighten the atmosphere, Mrs. Hudson making excuses, and Molly telling  jokes.  Very shortly, Molly said, “I n-need to go now.   I-I only had a little time to stop by.  Things to do you know.” She gave an awkward smile as she moved toward the door.  “Happy Christmas everyone.”

Jeannette stood up.  “Well, John, this has certainly been a flop thanks to your flatmate.”  She continued on as John began to protest.  “I’m tired of everything in your life centering around him.  I don’t need a man who’s already taken.  Don’t bother calling me.”

John sighed and sat down in his chair while Mrs. Hudson began to fuss over him.  Lestrade moved toward the kitchen, “Mrs. Hudson, could you help me a minute?”  When she had joined him, he said quietly, “I don’t want to be rude, but I thought maybe in light of John’s breakup and my... divorce, maybe it’d be good for us to just talk as two blokes.”

“Oh certainly, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “And I am so sorry.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Let me escort you to the door,” as he smiled and held out his arm.  She let out a little giggle and then said good night to John.

After she’d left, Lestrade sat down on the sofa.  “How’d you convince her to leave?” John asked curiously.

“I gave the impression you and I were going to talk about the breakups of our relationships.”

“Do you actually want to do that?” John asked with raised eyebrows.  Lestrade looked at John in a way that questioned his sanity.  “Yeah, me neither.  Though you know, I am sorry that…” John trailed off.

“Thanks.  Now whose ringtone is that?”

John paused for a second at the change in topic, “Uh, Irene Adler’s.”

“Really, and she gave him a present.”

“Yeah and one he wasn’t too happy to get.  I heard him tell Mycroft that she was going to die tonight.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good.  Sounds like it could be a danger night.  Mind if I hang around for a bit?  I could help you get things back in order.”

While they straightened up, they searched the kitchen and then the living room for any contraband.  They had just been taking a break when Sherlock finally came out of his room, heading straight for his Belstaff, not even looking in their direction.

“Where are you going, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock spoke as he put on his coat and scarf. “My brother has requested my presence at the morgue to identify a body.”  Lestrade and John exchanged glances.

“Do you want me to come with you?” John put his book aside and stood up.

“No.”  Sherlock was going out the door, before he corrected himself, “No, thank you.”

Lestrade began dialing Mycroft’s number before Sherlock had even finished going down the stairs.  Mycroft confirmed that the body was thought to be Irene Adler’s, and unsurprisingly agreed that it was a danger night.  “Well,” Lestrade suggested, “Why don’t you search your room and the loo, while I search Sherlock’s room?”

“My room?” John asked.  “Why would he put anything in my room?”

“Last place you’d expect to find something is in a shoebox in the back of your own closet or under your mattress or taped on the top of the trim above the window.  You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy places he’s stashed things.”

By the time Mycroft called to say that Sherlock had taken the cigarette, they were done searching.  “I better get out of here,” Lestrade said.  “You can call if I’m needed, no matter how late.  But having me still here waiting is likely to upset him.  But if Sherlock complains about his sock index, you can tell him that I know how to do a search and put things back where I found them.”  
 

* * *

 

  
Disaster seemed to have been averted.  According to John, Sherlock was composing melancholy tunes, but nothing worse had happened. 

Lestrade was working longer hours over the week between Christmas and New Year’s since he didn’t have family to spend the holidays with anymore.  Actually, he had been sleeping at his office until he could find a new flat.  He had told Donovan about the divorce, asked her to pass it on to the team and tell them that he didn’t want to talk about it.  So, while busy at work, he could forget that he couldn’t go home, except of course, when he received a tasteful condolence card from Mycroft.

He stopped by to check on Sherlock and see how he was doing and found him with his violin.   Once Lestrade said that he didn’t have a case for him, Sherlock pointed out a wrapped box with his bow and said, “I didn’t have a chance to give you Mummy’s present at the party.  Take it with you.” 

Lestrade had never actually met Mrs. Holmes, but she knew of him through Mycroft.  Since Sherlock had been clean, Mrs. Holmes had been sending Lestrade a gift every year.  Always very tasteful, not too pricey, with a nice handwritten note thanking him for looking out for her boy.

“Sherlock?  What was Molly’s present to you?  If you don’t mind my asking.”

“A scarf.”

“Ah, she made it herself?” Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.  “Did _you_ know she knit?” He definitely sounded perturbed that Lestrade might have known about one of her hobbies when he hadn’t.

“No, but once I knew what she’d given you, I deduced it,” Lestrade said, deliberately using Sherlock’s word with a smirk.

Sherlock half-scowled, “How? Did you see knitting needles in her purse?  Did she reference it in conversation? Did—”

“No, none of those things,” Lestrade interrupted the tirade.  “By her personality.  She thinks handmade gifts are more special.  And, uh….” Lestrade hesitated before going on, “you do know she has a crush on you?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t encourage it, do you?”  Lestrade asked as Sherlock raised his eyebrow.  “I mean, do you flirt with her or take advantage of her crush to get your way, which would signal to her that she has a chance with you?”

“I don’t flirt with her,” Sherlock huffed as he turned away.

“Well, see that you don’t.  It would be plain mean to do to a nice girl like Molly.  You’re better than that.  And anyway, Molly’s too good of an ally to set up like that.  If you build up her hopes too high, then you run a greater risk of losing her assistance when they’re dashed.”  


* * *

  
The next day, Lestrade was in the morgue to check up on a case and was about to leave when Molly said, “You know Sherlock was in here a few days ago to identify a woman’s body.”

“Yeah…” Lestrade said with a questioning tone.

“Well, see the thing is her face was all bashed in, and so she wasn’t identifiable.  But, Sherlock asked me to show the rest of her, and then he identified her by,” Molly stumbled over what to say next, “not her face.  H-how could he do that?  I mean Sherlock wouldn’t have—“

“My understanding is that Sherlock accidentally saw her,” Lestrade cleared his throat, “without clothing.  And being Sherlock, I’m sure he, uh, noticed just like he notices everything.  So, I wouldn’t assume it had to mean anything, but…” he sighed, “Molly you’re a nice young woman who deserves a man who’ll respect you.  And this woman is the first he’s paid attention to, and she’s not what anyone would consider girlfriend material.  He enjoys battling wits with her, but she’d turn on him in a heartbeat.  I just don’t see him ever in a normal boyfriend-girlfriend relationship,” Lestrade smiled sadly at her and left.

He knew he’d dashed her hopes, but he was certain that Sherlock had been taking advantage of her.  Better to try to turn her away now then for Sherlock to encourage her now and make a dog’s dinner of it later.  Still, when he remembered her crestfallen face as he left, he felt like he’d kicked a puppy.


End file.
